Merry Christmas, brother dear
by daisybelle
Summary: Five Christmases for John and Sherlock, from childhood to post-Reichenbach.


_**AN: **_This was written for laramycroft and the Sherlocksecretsanta 2012

* * *

_**1**__**979**_

_Sherlock_

It's Christmas morning and for the first time in years the Holmes estate is covered in snow. It looks quite lovely - the large park surrounding the house now a great white field, the trees powdered in snow and big snowflakes dancing in front of the window.

Without the snow it would be the time to unwrap the amount of gifts under the tree, but right now all the attention in the room is on the three year old boy staring with big grey eyes under a curly dark mop at the first snow in his lifetime. His little fingers touch the glass and everybody recognises the wish to touch, to examine this strange wondrous thing outside of the window. They practically feel him vibrating with excitement and nobody is surprised when Sherlock suddenly turns and runs into his room, only to return moments later with his little microscope.

It had been a gift of Sherlock's grandmother during her last visit in the summer when it was apparent how much Sherlock enjoyed examining things through Mycroft's equipment, so much that he in fact tried to work on it on his own which led to several destroyed microscope slides and experiments. Sherlock received his own little microscope, completely made of plastic and a great amount of plastic slides.

Right now he places his microscope carefully besides the glass door before opening it. His attempt to run outside is stopped by his mother's call and her demand for him to wear shoes. Impatiently the little boy slips them on, struggling a bit with the shoelaces before he runs outside to catch snowflakes with one of his microscope slides. As soon as he is satisfied he returns to watch the fast disappearing miracle under his lenses. The short glimpse he gets on those flakes is obviously not enough, because he soon runs out again to catch even more. Since each caught snowflake follows the fate of her predecessors, Sherlock runs out every few moments, a happy smile on his face.

As adorable this is to watch it also has the side effect of cooling the room effectively and when Mummy Holmes can't quite suppress her shivers, it's time for Sherlock's father to stop his son's explorations. The first tears appear and the demand for a stop is immediately converted in a demand for a break and that's how Mycroft found himself - after breakfast and the unwrapping of their gifts - with a content Sherlock on the terrace, holding an umbrella over his brother in his left hand and hunting snowflakes with his right, giving them to Sherlock who is clothed in their father's large overcoat.

_John_

John Watson loves Christmas morning. All the excitement before leads to him being awake way too early for his parents and normally also for Harry. But since he is already ten he is allowed to get up and go to the living room where their presents are piled up under the tree. He knows the big Christmas (and birthday) rule: He is allowed to open one present immediately, but has to wait with the others until his parents are awake. Right now he studies carefully every single package, the large ones, the tiny ones. It is a difficult choice and it isn't made easier by Harry who sits beside him and has already torn the paper of her gift to pieces.

Finally (Harry's sigh is not very subtle) he settles on a little package. Under his sister's glare he opens it faster than he normally would to find a Sheriff star and a pistol. He slides his fingers carefully over the shiny metal of the star and tries to attach it to his pyjamas. His fingers are a little too clumsy, so he turns his attention to the pistol, holding it in his hand as he had seen it on one of these TV shows for grown-ups.

Harry uses the opportunity to grab the star, examining it. Warily John regards her with a frown, his sister's track record with his belongings isn't that good. When she plays awfully long with the stick needle, he fears for his present.

"Give it back!"

He is of course ignored. Reaching for the star leads the Harry sliding away from him. He follows her immediately which only results in her moving further away. It takes not much to change into a full chase through the living room, running over the sofa and jumping over presents all the while Harry mocking him and John aiming his pistol at her.

Eventually their playing cops and robbers expands to the rest of the house and John forgets about the real cause for the chase, because he can't remember when Harry and he had so much fun together. Of course they wake their parents and their father stops the chase and let them help with breakfast, but while eating his toast with jam John can't help the grin that spreads on his face and it is matched by Harry's on the opposite of the table.

* * *

_**1991**_

_John_

John wakes up with a pounding head and a dry mouth. He contemplates opening his eyes, but somehow that feels too much of an effort. A soft exhale beside him brings back memories of the last night.

Harry and he had an unvoiced agreement to spend the first Christmas since their parents' death together (car accident, the other driver had lost control on icy roads and crashed with their car head-on, they were both dead instantly). The agreement also included an avoidance of everything that had been part of the Watson's Christmas tradition. So instead of enjoying a good meal on Christmas Eve they both had toured through the pubs, getting really sloshed and each succeeding in finding company for the night.

He doesn't remember too much of the sex, it's just a blurry of heated, naked skin and breathless moans and a pleasant lingering feeling, but he is aware of the naked body next to him and doesn't feel ready to encounter someone of whom he doesn't really remember the name. Something like Bitsy or Mitsy. Instead he takes the increasing pressure on his bladder as the cue to finally open his eyes and attempt to leave the bed.

He can't suppress the groan as his body gets familiar with the concept of being upright again, but fortunately it doesn't provoke a reaction from his bed companion.

After a quick survey John discovers that Harry's bathroom is heavily underequipped on the painkiller department, so he heads for the kitchen instead, where he is greeted by a Harry who looks exactly as he feels. She only raises one eyebrow before pushing the box of painkillers to him. He gets himself a glass of water, decides on two pills and swallows them with a large gulp.

John empties his glass and answers Harry's glare as he sets it down with an audible clink with a faint smile. He looks at the bottle she holds in her hand warily and his suspicion is confirmed when she hands it over and he smells the alcohol. They eye each other for a moment; Harry's face a mixture of dare and grief which he can't resist. He sets the bottle to his lips, feels the burn of the alcohol and uncried tears in his eyes.

_Sherlock_

Sherlock has seen the great hall less crowded, empty in fact during his nightly explorations of the old manor which now contains his school, but somehow the view of just a few scattered boys in the Great Hall was just depressing.

It isn't the first time he stays at home during the holidays, but he is usually picked up at Christmas. But since their divorce his parents avoided talking to each other and each assuming that Sherlock would stay with the respectively other made their own plans which didn't include a lanky know-it-all teenager. Normally that would have left him with Mycroft but his brother had recently started his career in the British Government and was abroad for the Christmas days.

That's how he finds himself in the company of those students who share his lack of places to be welcome at Christmas. And it is a rather unfriendly company because he has managed to annoy most of them (most of the absent boys too). He decides to spend the time in the library which is not the worst fate he could imagine, although it would have been the perfect opportunity to practise on his violin because he has his dorm for his own and wouldn't annoy the others (not more than he already does), but the school lacks a competent teacher and he feels rather out of touch with his instrument. So library it is. Of course, he is also rather behind his studies in chemistry, having gotten distracted by an ancient map of London marking the sites of the Jack-the-Ripper-murders.

The only thing he has to survive are the joint meals and of course the gift-wrapping. Especially the latter will probably a rather tiresome event, teachers trying to be cheerful about every guilt-driven present and students that pretend an overpriced item makes up for the loneliness.

Sherlock himself has sent his parents a rather extended booklist and his expectations of getting them all are not disappointed, but somehow it lacks the usual satisfaction of getting something right. Instead he just feels empty.

He almost overlooks the envelope from Mycroft. It contains a copy from the headboard of the school to their headmaster, stating that they've found a new music teacher from January on who is also willing to tutor students on their violins. Sherlock is not sure, but the day might look a bit brighter for a moment.

* * *

_**2001**_

_Sherlock_

Wandering through London in the middle of the night is always fascinating. The daytime noise reduced, but never fully stopped, the uniformity of suits and working clothes exchanged for club appearances which show more than they hide. Sherlock likes to observe people, the pickpocket near the posh restaurants, the prostitutes in the alleys, the homeless hiding in plain sight, the drug dealers in the dark archways.

The only time this pattern differs is on Christmas Eve. Most people are busy preparing everything for the grand surprise on the next morning and the only people on the street are the desperate or those who must. While walking through the steady downpour of snow and rain Sherlock amuses himself figuring out to which category he might belong.

He is not desperate (yet), only dreading the boredom of the enforced quietness through the holidays. And unlike those others he has actually somewhere to go, somewhere where he is welcome, at least by his mother if not by the idiot she decided to marry two years ago. Said idiot made the Christmas dinners to a tiresome experience and Sherlock needed something to look forward to.

That's why he had decided to re-stock his cocaine supply. He isn't sure whether he will need it, sometimes Mycroft's presents can distract him for a few days, but he likes to be prepared. And since apparently even drug dealers took their holidays he had to buy it tonight.

Slowly he reaches Jayden's usual spot, but another customer is buying at the moment. Sherlock waits until the deal is finished and the time it takes the other buyer to disappear in the night before he approaches the skinny man. The dealer looks always too fragile, but Sherlock knows better than to underestimate the man. After all he has passed two of his guards on his way through the alley and he suspects three or four more in the vicinity.

Words are almost unnecessary; Sherlock is even though not a regular customer at least regular in his buying habits. The only words exchanged is the current prize, before a minion is sent away to get Sherlock's order. But before they can actually exchange money for cocaine some kind of signal resonates through the alley and everybody runs away.

Sherlock also starts to walk away in a crisp tempo, but just moments later a black limousine appears beside him. Government issued. Sherlock's groan is heartfelt; this is the third dealer Mycroft has scared away, now he has to start his search at the beginning. The unmistakable opening of the backdoor makes it clear that he won't start his search on Christmas.

_John_

John closes the door of the medic barrack behind him, letting out a relieved sigh. He has lost count how long he has been in there operating on the victims of another attack. Seeing the injuries of those young men, some of them barely old enough to enlist, leaves him questioning the purpose of his actions. Some of those he saved tonight will die in another attack when they were sent back.

With practised ease he shakes those thoughts off. There is no use in pondering on the cruelties of the war. It does not do him any good and it certainly won't stop the blood shedding.

Slowly he makes his way through the snow to the showers without bothering to stop for fresh clothes first. It will probably be a futile attempt to get rid of the smell of blood that still lingers in his nostrils. He strips himself efficiently, allowing himself to linger a little longer under the water than he normally would. He just dries himself, before resuming his way to his sleeping quarters.

The cold wind on his skin stings, but it helps him to feel alive again, to lose the feeling of death. Nevertheless he heads straight for his clothes to put on a new uniform, ignoring the package on his cot.

The package itself is nothing unusual, not at all different from those his comrades receive. The unusual bit it's from Harry. They had drifted apart since their parents' death, lost contact bit by bit, until with him being in Afghanistan and her being successful in London they only managed the obligatory greetings for birthdays and Christmas.

Christmas, of course, sometime in those long hours with his hands covered in blood, Christmas had passed. Carefully he opens the package in front of him, staring a bit lost on its contents.

It's a jumper in the colour of the Afghan desert in summer.

The envelope on top of it contains a simple card.

"Merry Christmas, John."

And for some strange reason he finds it reassuring that Harry would send him the same kind of uninspired gift to Afghanistan he would have received in London from her.

* * *

_**2012**_

_John_

The cashier wishes him a "Merry Christmas" and he stares at her uncomprehending before he manages to mumble something appropriate. It always takes him by surprise how fast the time has gone by, when his world still feels as if it had come to a full stop.

He functions, most of the time, it's definitely not living, not anymore, not since everything feels so numb.

So apparently Christmas has come, and it is confirmed by the decorations and lights in the shop windows. It is rather blatant, he wonders how he could have missed it. But he misses a lot these days, almost everything that isn't shoved right under his nose. Everything else is ignored, in the vain hope that not noticing won't trigger any unwanted memories of chases on rooftops or shared laughs. (But it triggers the nightmares, and he wakes up every so often shouting the name of his best friend.)

So it's Christmas. Wearily he climbs the stairs to his flat (not Baker Street). He thinks of the last one, the only one with Sherlock (with Irene Adler and the danger night and getting dumped). Certainly not his best Christmas ever (but also far from the worst), but the closest to normal for the past decade and it leaves him with a dangerous longing and a flood of memories.

Memories of his best friend pacing through the flat, scowling at his brother, lying on the sofa, waking him in the middle of the night for a new case, bringing him tea (once). With a sob he returns to the semi-dark reality of his flat. The utter stillness, the feeling of wrong let him jump up and almost running out of his flat.

He just makes a short stop at a liqueur store before he stops at Harry's door. Wordlessly she opens it and before she can say something he holds up the bottle (and of course he knows how wrong it is to bring alcohol to an alcoholic, but he can't stand drinking alone, haunted by memories of the former normalcy of his life). And Harry just lets him in without hesitation and questioning.

_Sherlock_

The little tavern is surprisingly full for Christmas Eve, many families enjoying a joined Christmas meal. In the corner plays a rather good string quartet and Sherlock feels the twinge in his fingers, longing to play for himself. He receives some curious looks, sitting alone in a corner, sipping his wine. Of course a lonely man on Christmas Eve in a French tavern must attract attention, but he can't see anything beyond curiosity and even some debating of inviting him. No hostility, nothing what he experienced during the past months.

It's an hour later when the quartet stops to play and one of the musicians approaches him. The words are carefully chosen, but under normal circumstances Sherlock would have declined. But somehow this man reminds him of John with his jumper and sandy hair and that's what makes him change his mind.

For a moment he fears the other guests' questions, mentally making up a believable lie, but they merely ask him to pass the potatoes or the salt and he begins to relax slowly. He doesn't eat much, his eating habits are even worse than before (and he misses John and Mrs Hudson nagging him about it), but he listens to the chatter around him and the mundane topics of those conversations are utterly refreshing after listening to murder plots and weapon deals for the past months. He hadn't known how much he missed a normal life.

And the knowledge that it would still take some time before he can have it again (and to show his gratitude), make him reaching for the violin and starting to play. He plays for the musicians (and for John and Mrs Hudson). And he sees their smiles and the man reminding him of John watches him attentively, so that his fingers falter for a second and he has to close his eyes before he can continue.

Later he returns to his room for the night and he switches his phone back on. He knows he can't contact John, it would destroy his meticulous planning, but he sends a text to his brother, the only one he can still reach.

"Merry Christmas, brother dear."

* * *

_**2015**_

_John_

John stands at the wall of an impressive ballroom, fingering his collar. He regrets now that has let Sherlock convince him to wear his parade uniform, but the detective's tactic involved a rather exquisite blowjob and the promise of more. John ignores the flash of desire that bolts through him and returns his attention to the crowd.

Mycroft has invited them to his Christmas Ball and Sherlock had inexplicably agreed. Although everything is very posh, John finds he enjoys himself. He has talked to an Army General and they had shared memories of the absolute madness of warfare, he was even introduced to several surgeons. It was nice to be absolutely in your element. With one of his colleagues he dared a few dances (under the disapproving glare of a certain detective). Sherlock had waited for him at the skirt of the dance floor and demonstrated his rights with a possessive kiss that left John's dance partner chuckling. Obviously satisfied with the woman's reaction, his detective had returned to his discussion with a Chemistry Professor.

John had helped himself to a glass of Champagne and walked out on the veranda, hoping to get some fresh air. A crisp winter breeze made him shiver, so he found himself a spot near the glass doors, the perfect place to benefit from the slightly open doors and to keep an eye on the crowd. And of course the perfect place to see Mycroft approaching him.

"I hope you are enjoying yourself, John."

"Quite so."

Their relationship had been strained – to put it politely – after Sherlock's fake suicide, even though John had resisted the temptation to punch him. They were now slowly warming up to each other again, treading carefully in each conversation, a lingering tension always present. But right now they simply fall in a companiable silence, each watching the same man at the other end of the room. As if on cue, Sherlock turns his head and sends a rare genuine smile their way. John pushes himself from the wall to join the man he loves, maybe he can convince to leave early.

He turns to Mycroft wishing him a pleasant Christmas. The other man accepts with a slightly upturned corner of his mouth, not yet the ironic smile he has perfected, and a gracious nod. A few steps later John stops again, turning to his virtual brother in law. He looks at him as if they've met for the first time. He doesn't know what his face shows but Mycroft gets utterly still und his gaze. The stillness is replaced by a little surprised twitch, when he finally speaks.

"Thank you for bringing him home."

_Sherlock_

They are early which is the exception to practically every date or appointment during the past weeks. Somehow their shagging slows their usual routine quite remarkably and Sherlock would be annoyed if said shagging didn't prove to be very spectacular. So instead he suffers through the comments of those who are waiting for them (but admittedly the suffering is bearable since he had discovered John's tendency to blush at the slightest hints at their reasons for being late).

But right now they are on time, early even for their Christmas meal with John's sister. They haven't spoken much about the time while they were apart, since it is a rather tetchy subject for either, but from what has been spoken Sherlock knows that Harry had stepped in to save her brother.

He is relieved to see her sober and actually telling the truth about her three-month-anniversary. And it seems that a sober Harry has much more in common with her brother than her drunken version. This makes the meal enjoyable, not only for the food, but the siblings share anecdotes from their childhood and it is always fascinating to learn new things about his John.

Sherlock gets another chance to observe the resemblance between brother and sister, when Harry corners him and informs him in great detail what she will do to him when he hurts her brother again. Apparently Harry belongs to the elite group of people who can render him speechless. Only after he solemnly swears that he has no intention of leaving (or hurting) John, he is released with a mirror image of John's smile when the detective has done something nice for him.

They stay longer than Sherlock has anticipated and he doesn't mind it. In fact he even returns her hug when they finally leave. And her whispered words leave him a little bit stunned.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock. Thank you for making him happy again."


End file.
